


take care

by sachiers



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Light Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21606067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachiers/pseuds/sachiers
Summary: “But as it was, Ian was miles away, reunited with his family, and even though Mickey was happy for him, was fucking glad that he had made it out of this shithole, a small part of him ached at the thought, the possibility of Ian forgetting about him … again.”Mickey, in the aftermath of Ian’s parole release.(Or: what happened between 10x03 and 10x05.)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 10
Kudos: 141





	take care

Mickey had never considered himself to be a person who became attached to people.

He just wasn't wired that way. (He had never let himself believe otherwise, anyway.)

Even if he hadn’t grown up on the Southside, or rather in the environment that he had, wasn’t a gay kid born to a man whose blood type spelled violent homophobia, didn’t have to hide away such a huge part of who he was for most of his life—even before he’d realized that he would most likely never be able to fully let his guard down, he’d had figured out that, in the end, he was in this world alone, and the only person he could rely on was, well, himself.

So why even bother pretending?

His “inner circle”, if one could even call it that, were his brothers—though they hung out together more out of habit and logistics rather than because of a real, deep connection—and his sister, whom, he conceded, he did care for somewhat beyond the general idea of it being a bothersome inconvenience, if something were to happen to her.

And really, he preferred getting things done on his own. He needed no one, and he was fine living the way he was living—going on occasional drug runs, scheming for other not strictly legal ways to get money, playing video games, trying to otherwise stay out of trouble …

He was fucked for life, anyway. It was a mantra that had chased him for as long as he could remember.

Then, one day, Ian Gallagher had come hurtling into his life—freckles all over his face and forearms, a lopsided smile that stretched wider than it should, and hair so fucking red that its intensity almost made Mickey’s eyes water, and, what stood out to Mickey the most glaringly, an innocence, a _naïveté_ etched across his face—quite a _nice_ face, he had to admit—that made Mickey both scoff and marvel at simultaneously, had him wanting to get closer, just so that he could maybe soak up some of it merely by existing in its presence.

He had come hurtling into his life, literally, with all the force of a hurricane, completely upending it, and doing it so sneakily that even while Mickey had been aware of what he was doing—that he was trying to dismantle those walls around him that he’d so carefully crafted and nurtured for all his life by pushing, always pushing, further, and further—he couldn’t help but let them cave, one by one.

No, Mickey didn’t consider himself to be a person who became attached to people—except for Ian Gallagher, apparently.

Ian fucking Gallagher, whose name he whispered to himself quietly as he lay in his bunk bed, the quiet of the night enveloping him, and contemplated the little note in his hands—the one that Ian had handed to him before their goodbye, after having folded it once, twice, three times, neatly into a rectangle, “to look at, when you miss me too much”.

Mickey had rolled his eyes.

“This isn’t the first time I’m locked away in prison without your ginger ass annoying the fuck out of me, Gallagher.”

Sadly, his play at nonchalance had been about as convincing as Ian’s attempt at trying to hide that he was about to cry—blinking rapidly, as he looked at him through reddened, glassy eyes, his lip quivering.

Ian had understood, though.

Mickey had, too.

Mickey had caught himself playing with the little piece of paper several times during the day since, slipping his hand into his pocket in between folding laundry, while he was waiting in the lunch line, and again when he was in his cell, taking it out, and turning it over and over in his hands.

He still hadn’t been able to bring himself to read it, and the longer he put it off, the longer he let the anticipation build, the more anxious he became, horrifying scenarios chasing themselves in his head, one after another. He’d thought that he had banned them from both his sleeping and waking hours, but apparently not.

Lying on the thin, hard mattress now, the coldness of the walls in his tiny cell were closing in on him, reminding him of the last time he’d been here.

Alone.

Hoping, waiting, wishing …

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the dangerous thought pattern, the treacherous road that his memories were leading him down, and turned to lie on his side, curling into himself.

Fucking stupid.

It was different this time. They loved each other.

Only, hadn’t he thought the same thing, then?

A groan escaped him. He was in for another sleepless night, apparently.

He’d been having a lot of them these days—ever since the news of Ian’s parole hearing, to be exact.

And usually, before, back when they’d first reunited, this would have been around the time Ian would have noticed Mickey turning around in his bed restlessly, and he would have slipped down quietly to join him, wrapping his arms around him, and burying his nose into the nape of his neck—and Mickey would have felt the weight on his chest lift just a little bit, been able to breathe more freely, and it would have been enough to chase away the worries about what would happen with them once Ian left to drift off into sleep.

But as it was, Ian was miles away, reunited with his family, and even though Mickey was happy for him, was fucking glad that he had made it out of this shithole, a small part of him ached at the thought, the possibility of Ian forgetting about him … again.

It would have made sense for them to spend the rest of their time after Ian’s parole hearing together like that as well; spend it as closely as possible, soak up all the time they had left with each other, before circumstancesdrew them apart again. But for some reason that Mickey couldn’t even make sense of himself, being so close to Ian while knowing that he would be gone soon—it had been too painful.

That first night, the hearing behind him, the date of his release set, Ian had slipped into Mickey’s bed after him, just like on those initial days of their incarceration, and Mickey had felt dread trickling down his back, feeling anxious and panicked all of a sudden.

“Can we— I—”

He hadn’t even been able to process what exactly he had said to Ian in that moment, but he remembered the look on Ian’s face so clearly, after he had somehow mumbled a semi-coherent sentence about needing some space, it may as well have carved itself into his brain; hurt, and confusion, and the beginning of a tear or two in the process of forming.

Ian had only exhaled a soft “okay”, though, and had climbed up into his own bed, leaving Mickey with a sinking feeling in his chest that had felt an awful lot like drowning—in guilt.

As hard as Mickey had tried, afterwards, he still hadn’t been able to remember his words, but Ian had kept his distance from Mickey on the following days—as much distance as was possible, anyway, given the fact that they shared a cell the size of a shoe box.

And Mickey had felt simultaneously relieved and miserable about that distance, at how much he was itching to reach out to Ian, and pull him close.

They had been cautious towards each other; not kissing, not really touching much, mostly playing tag watching each other longingly from different sides of their cell, the rec room, the showers …

It had been stupid, but Mickey hadn’t been able to bring himself to make a step towards Ian, an invisible force refraining him from closing the distance between them, and Ian had steadfastly respected Mickey’s wish for space, even though Mickey had seen the pain that had flashed through his eyes clear as day, whenever he had caught Ian looking at him, the way his muscles had flexed, his hands had sometimes clenched into fists with the effort of holding himself back from reaching out.

They had talked, though; finally. Had filled each other in on everything they’d missed in each other’s lives.

Ian had been closed off about his in a way that Mickey wasn’t familiar with. He had talked about being an EMT, about blowing up a van, about feeling like he had been drifting through life without an anchor, but Mickey had sensed him holding back, and he had felt his own heart clench painfully, wondering about the why.

He still remembered Ian as the enthusiastic, energetic teenager strolling down the baseball field with him at night, spilling everything from his dreams about joining the army and becoming an officer to the shenanigans he and his siblings had been up to, to the fact that he was worried whether or not he would ever be enough. Mickey hadn’t been in the business of digging further back then, hadn’t asked Ian what he’d meant by “enough”—but he’d felt like he’d known the answer, anyway.

Mickey himself had completely skipped talking about his years in prison that he had spent waiting for Ian, and later breaking out, not yet ready to voice them, speak them into existence—not yet ready to face Ian’s response, his explanation for it, the remorse he expected (hoped? dreaded?) to find on his face—and had instead told him about seeing the ocean, the picture he had taken with a cheap instant picture camera that he’d borrowed from a little girl who had been playing in the sand; the picture that he had taped on the wall next to his bed.

Ian had smiled softly, happily. “You saw the beach.”

“Yeah.” _Alone_ , had echoed in Mickey’s head, but he had let that thought drift and fade away into the corners of his mind. He’d had no intention of making Ian feel bad about how lonely he had felt, not then. About how, in all the scenarios he had made up while plotting his getaway, it had been him and Ian on that beach, together.

It ached, being reminded of how he had spent the last few years feeling a little hole in his heart where Ian resided.

He preferred not to think about it, even though he needed to, to work through the pain that being left behind had created—to overcome whatever still held him back from being sure of his heart being fully safe with Ian, a feeling that was much more prominent in his subconscious, than his consciousness would ever allow.

He needed to think about it, he could acknowledge to himself now, even if he’d rather imagine those years and those occurrences away.

On their last night, however, Mickey had caught Ian’s wrist in his hand, as he was about to climb up onto the top bunk.

Ian had turned around in surprise, caught off guard, tentative hope and yearning so vivid on his face that it had taken Mickey’s breath away—taking him all the way back to the time they had first been … something to each other.

“Come here.”

Mickey had guided him to his bed, and Ian had smiled that unrestrained, goofy, not quite symmetrical smile that made Mickey’s heart grow several sizes whenever it was directed at him.

They’d simply lain on his mattress for a little while, shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed against each other, and Ian had slowly, carefully, slipped his hand into Mickey’s, entangling their fingers, and squeezed.

Turning his head, Mickey had seen Ian wiping at his face with the other hand, and had felt his entire chest squeeze.

“Fuck,” Ian had mumbled, his voice husky.

“Hey.” Mickey had turned his body to face Ian’s, and had lifted his hand to comb away the little strand of hair from his forehead, before resting it on the side of his face, his thumb caressing Ian’s cheek.

“I fucking miss you, Mickey.” Already. In the future. In the past.

And everything had ceased to matter in that moment—their time apart, Mickey’s scars from them, just for now—they had the rest of their lives to work it out, to figure out how to move forward from it.

They had crashed together, and it had been messy—teeth clashing, hands grasping at each other desperately, tank tops and boxers disposed of carelessly—until it hadn’t anymore. Until it’d been all slow, soft, deeply intimate kisses that made Mickey’s skin tingle, a fervent warmth spreading through his body that had felt … that had felt like _love_ , cheesy as it sounded.

And then they’d moved as one; not hard, and fast, like they were used to, like they both loved, but slow, and deep, and … yeah, it had been perfect. He had felt Ian all around him, in him, his hot breath in his ear, before it had turned into murmurs of his name, over and over.

“Mick, I—“

Mickey’s mind had gone blissfully blank then, the only thing he’d registered Ian’s body on top of him; a heavy, grounding presence.

After, he’d only dimly registered Ian lifting himself off the bed, the sound of running water, and a few moments later the feeling of coldness, wetness on his stomach.

He’d hissed.

“Sorry,” Ian had mumbled, pressing a kiss to his hipbone sweetly, and making something flutter in Mickey’s chest, before chucking away the toilet paper he’d used to clean him up, and settling down beside him, resting his hands on Mickey's chest, and his chin on top of them.

Mickey’s eyes had been closed, but he had practically been able to hear the wheels turning in Ian’s head.

“What are you thinking?”

Ian hadn’t replied right away, grazing Mickey’s cheek, his mouth, his jaw with his finger instead. “I’m thinking …”

Barely a whisper; his voice quiet, and scratchy. “I care so fucking much about you, it hurts.”

Mickey had opened his eyes, ready to tell him to fuck off—partly amused, partly teasing—but Ian’s face had been all openness, and yearning, and something else, something he didn’t think he’d ever seen on it before.

“Mickey—”

“Hey.” Mickey had stopped him. He had known, instinctively, what Ian had wanted to do, but it hadn’t been the time, then. It had been their last night together, and he hadn’t wanted to give any room to that.

He’d pressed his lips to Ian’s, and they had kissed for a long time after that, just holding each other, looking at each other through increasingly heavy-lidded eyes, before they had eventually fallen asleep, their bodies entangled so closely that they could have been one.

Mickey’s finger slipped, and he felt a little sting. He had cut himself.

Mickey cursed softly under his breath.

He was a fucking coward, being afraid of a little piece of paper, he thought, as he pushed it under his pillow, still as perfectly folded as before.

Eventually, he fell asleep to memories of when they’d first started sneaking around, the way Ian had gradually coaxed feelings, wants, desires from him; feelings he had never allowed to breach the surface before then, desires to hold Ian’s hand when they weren't even fucking, to kiss him just because, an overwhelming _want—_ to take care of him, to protect him from everything bad in the world, to make sure that he was happy … he had let himself imagine spending the rest of his life like that with him, because even though it hadn’t always been perfect, it had been pretty damn perfect to him.

It wouldn’t be until Mickey was making his way back home, back to Ian, that he would unfurl the little piece of paper with the sound of Ian’s voice in his ear.

“Remember what you told me that morning under the bleachers, when you came back for me?” Ian had asked him.

Mickey had only nodded.

Reading the note in his hand, he felt his heart skip a beat, felt warmth radiate all the way from his heart to the tips of his fingers.

“You’re under my skin, man,” he had said. “The fuck can I do?”

He traced the words Ian had written for him with his finger; once, twice.

_You’re under mine._

_Always._

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote a lengthier goodbye scene as well, but ended up cutting it, because it felt more organic this way. i don’t know if anyone would even care to read it, but if you do, please feel free to leave a comment, and i’ll add it to the series.
> 
> thank you so much for reading! <3


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